


Christmas Planning

by HermioneGirl96



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crying, Friendship, Homophobia, Homophobic Malcolm Grimm, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, POV First Person, POV Penelope Bunce, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-08
Updated: 2018-02-08
Packaged: 2019-03-15 07:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13608477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HermioneGirl96/pseuds/HermioneGirl96
Summary: Baz asks his parents if he can bring Simon to Oxford for Christmas, but Baz's father won't let go of his homophobia. Penny and Simon come to pick Baz up, and Penny tries to give Baz a pep talk.





	Christmas Planning

**BAZ**

It’s November and I’m spending the weekend in Oxford because it’s Mordelia’s birthday. Spending time with my family chafes these days, since my father hates so much of who I am, but I’m here willingly this time. Mordelia is a pest, but I love her fiercely. In some ways, I don’t know her very well, since she was born after I started at Watford and grows and changes so fast that she seems like a different person every time I come home. But she’s also felt like she’s _mine_ , in some small and partial way, ever since that day during winter break of my first year at Watford, when Daphne was out shopping for Christmas presents and my exhausted father pushed a screaming Mordelia into my arms and said, “See if you can get her quiet, Basil. I’m at my wit’s end.” I sang Christmas carols to her (we learned a lot in primary school, and I liked them), and she quieted over the course of ten minutes and wound up cooing in my arms.

Now she’s turning eight. (Merlin and Morgana, I’m getting so old.) At the birthday party, I obligingly cut cake and scoop ice cream while Daphne and my father chat with the other parents who have decided to stay for the party. The combined inanity of a dozen seven- and eight-year-old girls is nearly enough to suffocate me, but I resist the urge to make faces or sarcastic comments. At one point, I hear one of the other mothers (a Normal, but from money almost as old as ours) remark to Daphne that I’m “such a model older brother, and so handsome.” I don’t react to the remark, since a person with ordinary hearing probably wouldn’t have been able to hear it, but internally I celebrate. That’s exactly what I need—external testimony that I’m a good, worthwhile member of this family.

I need it because my father would still like to pretend that I’m not gay, and I want to invite my boyfriend to Christmas. I decided to broach the subject today because I knew the birthday party would cast me in a flattering light. I wait until the party is over, the guests have gone home, and Mordelia has skipped up to her room to play with her new dolls and plastic ponies. Then I fetch wine for the three of us who are left—white for Daphne; red for my father and me—and prepare myself.

“Thank you for your help today, Basil,” Daphne says before I can get up the courage to actually say anything. “It’s so touching to see how much you care about your sister.”

I give a small smile. It’s not forced, exactly, but it’s not really natural, either. Smiling almost never is for me. “I’m glad to help.” I swallow. “Since we’re all together, I’d like to address the topic of Christmas.”

“Yes—what day do your classes end?” Daphne asks.

“The Friday before Christmas,” I reply. “But what I wanted to ask was . . .” Crowley. Getting lost in the middle of a sentence is Snow’s thing, not mine. “Simon and I have been a couple for almost a year now. He is a part of my life and I hope he always will be. I want to bring him with me when I come to Oxford for Christmas.”

My father’s fingertips have gone white where he’s holding his wine glass. “I will _not_ allow your _‘boyfriend’_ into my house.”

Daphne puts her hand on my father’s arm. “Malcolm—”

He turns his head toward her. “You can’t possibly support the disgusting lifestyle he’s choosing.” Before Daphne can say anything, he turns back to me and says, “You’re the last in the Pitch line—the only heir! You’re supposed to be passing on the name, and instead you’re cavorting with our sworn enemy!”

I hold my father’s stare. “Do you honestly think I can have children?”

My father says nothing. I figured he hadn’t thought of that and wouldn’t have a response. To his credit, he doesn’t stutter or blush, either—just keeps staring at me.

When I know my point has sunk in, I continue: “Simon destroyed the Humdrum and killed the Mage. There’s no rational reason for us to hate him anymore.”

“He claims that killing the Mage was an accident,” my father responds.

I nod. “I think it was. But destroying the Humdrum was intentional, and it still matters that he’s no longer taking instructions from the Mage—and that he, Bunce, and I were working apart from the Mage to investigate Mother’s death and take down the Humdrum last December. Simon hasn’t been my enemy in nearly a year, and there’s no reason for him to be yours, either.”

“If you insist on maintaining a relationship with this boy, you can stay in London for Christmas. How you expect us to support this unnatural lifestyle—” my father begins, but Daphne cuts him off.

“The Possibelfs have a lesbian daughter. So do the Pettys,” Daphne says. “The Lightfoots have a gay son. We’re not the only ones. We’re not about to become a laughingstock because of him. In fact, we’re more likely to be shunned for rejecting him than for accepting him.”

My father shakes off Daphne’s hand. “It’s not about what other people accept or don’t accept! It’s about what’s proper—what’s right—what’s _natural_!”

“There’s nothing natural about rejecting your own son,” Daphne says quietly.

I’m almost choking up with gratitude for my stepmother—I never expected her to take my side against my father, even though she never seemed particularly bothered by my queerness—but this is my fight and I have to speak. I swallow hard and say, “I love you, Father, and I love this family.” And it’s true. I wish it weren’t sometimes—that would make things easier—but I don’t know how to stop loving my family. 

“But keeping Simon away from Oxford isn’t going to change the fact that he’s in my life,” I continue, “and forbidding me from visiting you won’t make me stop being gay. I want a place here as your gay son, because that’s all I’m ever going to be. If you can’t accept me as your gay son or Simon as my boyfriend, then we have no place here, and we’ll stay in London. But I want you to accept us as we are, because we can’t change who we are, and I don’t want to lose you.”

My father sets his wine glass down roughly and puts his head in his hands. “Why can’t you just find a nice girl and get married like an ordinary young man?”

Even though my father isn’t looking, I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. “Because I’m not an ordinary young man, and _that was never within my control._ ”

Daphne looks from me to my father and back. “I’ve seen how happy Simon makes you, Basil. I would gladly host him for Christmas.”

My father stands. “Fine. You may bring your atrocious lover to Christmas. But don’t expect me to pretend to like it, _fagot._ ” He stalks from the room. The oak-panelled door is too large to slam, so he leaves it wide open behind him. Daphne gives me a pained look before chasing after him.

All the warmth in the room seems to leave with her. I shiver and then realize that I can’t stop shaking. I just didn’t expect my father to be quite so _vehement._ I first came out to him three years ago, after all, and he’s never come quite this close to disowning me before.

That’s it. I’m not staying the night. I walk to the kitchen, leave a note for Daphne to say I’m leaving, get out my mobile, and call Simon. “How soon can you get to Oxford?” I ask as soon as he picks up. (Daphne drove to London to pick me up yesterday, but it would be a bit much to ask her to take me back this late, and Bunce is the only one of the three of us with a car, so I need Simon to get her to drive here.) (For all that we basically live together, Bunce and I don’t really talk much one-on-one.) (I want a car, but these days I base my spending decisions on the fact that my father could disown me any day, and that means I’m deferring any large purchases until I finish school and get a full-time job.)

“Baz, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” It’s a comfort to hear Simon’s voice, especially with so much caring in it. It feels almost like a hug, even over the phone.

“My father called me a fagot. I’m doing about how you’d expect.” I’m not crying. I’m not even particularly close. Give it a few minutes to sink in, though . . . I’m not expecting a tear-free night.

“Oh, Baz, darling.” He really calls me that now, after that one time I mentioned fantasizing about it. Then I hear him say, “Penny, can you drive me to Oxford?” I hear Bunce’s reply, indistinctly, and then Simon says, “How soon can we get there? Baz wants to know.” After another indistinct reply from Bunce, Simon says, “Forty-five minutes. Can you hang on that long?”

Forty-five minutes. Huh. How many spells is Bunce planning on casting? Simon and I both lucked out in having her as a friend. The only person I’ve ever met with more power than Bunce was Simon, before he gave up his power to stop the Humdrum. And Bunce has control Simon never dreamt of. “All right,” I say. “I need to feed, and the hunting is better here anyway.”

“Okay. We’re on our way. I love you.” Simon hangs up. I’m grateful, both that he’s coming and that the conversation is over; a lump in my throat is starting, and I don’t know how much longer I could carry on a normal conversation.

I let myself out of the house and head for the small forest that makes up the majority of our property. I’m too wrung out to use _**Doe, a deer**_ , but I do it anyway because I’m too tired to hunt. Plus, it keeps me out of sight of the neighbours; our grounds here aren’t nearly as expansive as they were in Hampshire. I feel better once I’ve drained the deer—not energized or comforted, but a little less desperate.

While I wait for Bunce and Simon, I _**Open sesame**_ my window and use _**Float like a butterfly**_ to retrieve my things without having to re-enter the house. I only have to wait about 20 minutes post-feeding before Bunce’s car pulls into my gravel driveway and Simon jumps out.

**PENNY**

Simon’s mobile rings when we’re in the middle of an episode of _Doctor Who_. I press pause on the remote while Simon answers his phone, and Matt Smith’s face freezes in a funny position, eyes half closed and mouth half open. I only get a second to laugh at Matt Smith’s face, though, before I notice Simon’s, which is contorted in worry.

“Baz, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asks into his mobile. His face falls over the next few seconds as he listens to the answer, and now he looks sad _and_ worried. 

“Penny, can you drive me to Oxford?” Simon asks, and now I’m worried, too. Baz told us he was determined to stay in Oxford for the weekend even though spending time with his parents was going to be difficult. What happened to make him change his mind?

“Yes, of course,” I reply. 

“How soon can we get there? Baz wants to know.”

I do some quick calculations in my head. This is clearly an emergency, and I haven’t used much magic yet today . . . “Forty-five minutes.”

Simon’s eyebrows shoot up, but he just repeats my answer to Baz. An “I love you” later, he hangs up and stares at me. “Penny, are you sure?”

I hold his gaze. “Baz is my friend, too. If he needs us, I’ll do what I can.”

“You’re the best. You know that, right?”

“Of course I do,” I answer, getting up to grab my things. 

Thirty seconds later, Simon and I are heading out the door, having hastily tugged on our shoes and coats. We run to my car, get in, and fasten our seatbelts, and then I tell Simon to hold on. 

I immediately push past the speed limit, and I keep casting _**Make way for the king**_ all the way out of London. Once we hit the M40 motorway, I start in on the speed spells: _**Swift as an arrow**_ and _**Time flies**_ and _**Quick like a bunny**_ (this last from Micah’s mother). I even try to cast _**You drove too fast, the lights of the city flew past**_ from Micah’s sister’s favourite musical, _Next to Normal_ , but it doesn’t work. I can’t tell if that’s because it’s too long, because it’s not a very common phrase, or because it’s in second person (I wish I could have Simon try to cast it—sometimes I almost forget he lost his magic). Only half my spells are working, actually ( _ **Time flies**_ flopped too, unsurprisingly), but the ones that are working are working well. I am a damn powerful magician, after all. 

I have to use _**Good Lord, show me the way**_ to find the Grimm house, since Simon and I have never been there before. (Thank snakes Micah and I took the time to watch some American movies when I spent the summer with him last year.) I’m glad we find the house when we do. Even with my level of magic, I’m exhausted from spellwork by the time we arrive. 

Simon explodes out of the car as soon as I put it in park. He tries to wrap Baz in a hug, but Baz ducks away and says, “Not here. Can we just leave?”

“Of course, darling,” says Simon, and then he opens the back door of the car, slides in until his wings thud against the door opposite, and beckons Baz to follow him. (I’m watching in the rear-view mirror. I gave it extended viewing powers quite a while ago.)

Baz enters, shuts the door behind him, throws his rucksack into the passenger seat, and huddles into Simon’s arms. I turn around. “You two don’t want seatbelts, do you?”

Simon, who’s stroking Baz’s hair, says, “Not really.”

I nod, wave my ring at them, and cast _**Safe and sound**_. That’s the limit of my magic for the night. I feel almost like I’m in a dead spot, like I’m being hollowed out and what’s left of me is gritty and dry. “Do you mind if the drive back takes the full time?” I ask the boys. It’ll be midnight by the time we get to London, but I can’t help it. 

“Anything is fine,” Baz replies. “You’re already being too nice.” I’m surprised to hear his voice catch. I haven’t heard him like that since Simon started talking again, after the Mage died.

I back out of the Grimms’ gravel driveway and start finding my way back to the M40 motorway. Even though I’m usually shite at comfort, I find myself wanting to help. I check the rear-view mirror, find the boys cuddled up together, and make brief eye contact with Baz. “Do you mind if I say something, or do you want me to leave you alone?”

After a few seconds, Simon says, “Go ahead.”

“It’s absolute shite that you’re going through this, Baz,” I begin. Strictly speaking, I’m not entirely sure what “this” is, since I was in too much of a hurry and too stressed about driving for Simon to tell me much on the way here, and, from the length of Simon and Baz’s phone call, I don’t think Simon knows much, anyway. But I know how much Baz can take, so seeing him like this scares me and breaks my heart, though probably not as much as it breaks Simon’s.

“And I’d think that about anyone,” I continue, “but I’m saying it out loud to you because I like you. I _really_ like you, Baz. You make Simon so happy, and you stopped the Families from tearing the World of Mages apart, and you’re bloody brilliant and powerful and utterly _fascinating_. So I’m really sorry you have to deal with homophobia, and don’t ever let your family make you believe that you’re less than wonderful.”

I hear a sob from the backseat: Baz is crying. “Did I say something wrong?” I ask. 

“No,” Baz sobs. “That was good. More than good.”

“So you’re crying?” I ask.

There’s a snort: Simon’s. “Crowley, Penny. The next time someone gives me that gendered bullshit about girls being more in tune with emotions than guys are, I’ll send them your way. Sometimes kindness makes you cry, especially when you think you don’t deserve any.”

“Oh,” I say. 

“I should say,” Baz starts, and that’s as far as he gets before his voice breaks. A few deep breaths later, he tries again: “I should say that Daphne was amazing tonight. I think my father was ready to disown me—” A few more deep breaths. “Disown me for my ‘unnatural lifestyle,’ but Daphne said disowning me would be unnatural. She said we’re welcome for Christmas, too, and my father didn’t contradict her, but he did say he wouldn’t pretend”—a sob—“wouldn’t pretend to like it.”

For a while there’s nothing but quiet crying and murmured reassurances from the back seat, and I give the boys their space and focus on driving as large estates give way to suburbs and clouds cover and uncover the moon. I can’t help thinking, though—I never can—and now I’m thinking about Christmas. Finally, when we’re on open road and the boys have quieted down, I glance in the rear-view mirror at them again and say, “Let’s do Christmas in London.”

“I want—” Baz starts, and then his voice catches. He takes a deep breath and says, “I want to spend it with my family.”

“Do you think that’s a good idea, darling?” Simon asks. 

“I don’t want to lose them,” Baz replies. 

“Take a holiday off,” I suggest. “Go back for Easter. You might all benefit from some time to cool off.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Baz says, “Weren’t you planning on flying to America to see Micah?” His voice is steadier now.

“He can come to London,” I reply. I planned this all while Baz was crying. “And maybe we can nip over to my parents’ for Christmas dinner, and you two can come, or you can have dinner with Fiona, but then we’ll all come back to the flat and do presents or crackers or whatever.”

“Wow, Penny,” says Simon. “You really thought this through." He’s always saying things like that, like it’s still a surprise after eight and half years of knowing me.

“Can I sleep on it?” Baz asks, ignoring Simon. “You’re being very kind, Bunce, but . . .” He sighs. “I don’t really want to make a decision right now.”

“Of course,” I say. “But Baz?”

“Yes?” There’s weariness in his tone.

“I think it’s time you called me Penelope. You don’t have to call me Penny, but surnames feel weird at this point.”

Baz sighs again. “I’ll try. Sometimes. Penelope.”

“Does that mean you’ll call me Simon now?” Simon asks eagerly.

“I already do,” Baz huffs. “Sometimes.”

“More often? Please?” Simon begs.

“Fine,” says Baz. “Simon. It’ll stop being so special, though.”

“It’ll never stop being special,” Simon murmurs. Then I hear something that sounds like a kiss, so I tune out the boys. 

It’s maybe half an hour later when I hear Baz’s voice at a volume louder than a murmur: “Bunce?—Penelope? Do you want me to drive?”

“Baz. You’re exhausted.” I try not to think about how much energy it takes me to even say that. 

“And you’re drooping over the steering wheel,” Baz replies. 

I realize that it’s true. Then I process the fact that I didn’t notice until now. “Do you think you’re up for it?”

“More than you are, definitely,” he replies.

“All right. I’ll look for somewhere to stop.”

There’s a petrol station a few kilometers later. Once I park, Baz and I get out; he comes around to the driver’s side and I hand him my keys for the first time in my life. I’m too exhausted to say anything clever. “I won’t crash,” Baz promises. 

“Good,” I reply before getting into the back seat. Then I look at Simon. “On a scale of cherry scones to merewolves, how do you feel about me falling asleep on your shoulder?”

“Steak and potatoes,” Simon answers, so I take the middle seat and lay my head against him.

“Sleep well, Penelope,” Baz says as he starts the car. 

As I drift off, I think that this is progress. 

I’m glad we have each other.


End file.
